


(hard to dance) with a devil on your back

by tree



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Anonymity, Episode: s04e13 Never Again, F/M, Interstitial, Scully gets laid, not everything is about you Mulder, the pantyhose stay on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was like going to confession, she thought. Just a voice and then absolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(hard to dance) with a devil on your back

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anonymity square on my kink bingo card. Many thanks to wendelah1 for enabling me and also looking this over in spite of technical difficulties. The title is from _Shake It Out_ by Florence + the Machine.
> 
> This story begins right in the middle of the episode. You know which scene I mean.

> Scully: Ed, you're bleeding again. Will you let me take a look at it? I am a doctor.  
>  Jerse: They said this could happen.  
>  Scully: Ed, it looks burned.

 

He wrenched her arm up and away, pulling her whole body closer. Arousal tore through her like a shot.

They stood poised on the brink of something -- a punch, a waltz -- until her breath hitched and her fingers flexed against his grip. And then they were kissing: violent, fierce. No preliminaries, just tongues and saliva and teeth. 

She could smell him, fresh deodorant mixed with a little sweat, alcohol and the faint tang of blood. He was warm, solid muscle and flesh, half naked, with the hard ridge of his erection against her belly making him a liar. Her entire body seemed to have been infused with the humming vibration of the tattoo machine so that she was thrumming. She barely knew him and she wanted him to fuck her so badly the wanting was like pain.

He used his hold on her wrist to pull her closer and she welcomed the press of his whole body against hers. He released her arm to work on the tiny buttons of her sweater. She licked greedily at the hot, salty skin of his neck. The sweater caught halfway down her arms but she barely noticed as he rubbed her nipple through her bra. She swayed slightly and pressed back against the wall. His hips ground against her, flattening her back, and she cried out at the bite of the tattoo.

He pulled away, panting. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head and slid the sweater from her shoulders, let it drop to the floor. Then she turned and offered him her back. "Like this."

Tracing the edges of her bandage with two fingers, he moved in close behind her, blocking the light. He was over and around her, everywhere, enveloping her, his mouth a hot burn against her neck, her jaw. His hands slid over her breasts and stomach, down the front of her thighs.

Like this she couldn't see his face, could see nothing but a strong, tanned arm disappearing into the gaping waist of her trousers. He could've been anyone, anyone at all. Just the thought made her hotter, made her shudder in his grip. It didn't matter that she was panting and pushing herself into his hands just hours after they'd met, that she barely knew him. He could give her what she needed and she'd never have to see him again. It was like going to confession, she thought. Just a voice and then absolution. 

"Jesus, are you wearing pantyhose?" 

Her laugh ended on a squeak as his hand pushed into her underwear. "It's cold outside," she managed, then whimpered as his finger slid between her labia.

"It's warm in here," he said hoarsely.

It was so good she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Of their own accord her hips were moving with his hand. He was grinding against her back, grunting with each thrust. A hard fist of lust blossomed in her belly, blooming and expanding. His other hand grabbed her hair close to the scalp and yanked her head up and back, then it was around her throat, almost but not quite choking her. He held her there, strung taut and suspended between his hands.

There was nothing she could do. She was helpless, burning, and he was fucking her with his fingers, fucking her against her new tattoo, the hard jut of his penis against her ass. His mouth was pressed against her ear and he was talking to her, a constant stream of murmuring. "God, you want it, don't you? You're so wet, baby, so fucking wet." 

Her fingers scrabbled at the wall for purchase, yanked on his neck to anchor herself. He was a mass of animal flesh behind her, anyone at all, it didn't matter who as long as he gave her what she needed. She needed to come, needed the white-out of pleasure, to erase everything she was so she'd be born new, herself. She struggled on the jagged edge of it, the relentless rhythm, his hand on her throat, every stab of feeling like a knife, like she was bleeding from a dozen wounds, like immolation, freezing, the sound of her own voice crying out and falling, 

           flung

                     churned

                                         dissolved.


End file.
